


Remission

by Blurhawaii



Series: Almost Human [2]
Category: Almost Human
Genre: Other, hints of PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blurhawaii/pseuds/Blurhawaii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not sure who he hates the most. His goddamn medic, Dorian or himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remission

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I wrote a sequel.
> 
> The funny thing is, I'll probably have lost interest by the time the show actually starts.

For the next couple of months, John convinces himself that he’s cured.

When he’s on the job, his leg is as steady as ever. If anything, he’s found he can actually run faster for longer and tires less quickly. While the spineless medic swears blind the coma he was in, the one that spanned several long years, probably has something to do with his initial lack of energy, John knows his body. He knows what he’s capable of better than anyone. So he knows that he can say, with absolute certainty, that with this synthetic body part, he has peaked physically.

There’s no doubt that on the job, he’s never been better. So what, if the price he has to pay for greatness is the steady decline of his mental state when he’s off the job. That was always going to happen, whether he had a working fucking leg or not.

And, as much as he hates to admit it, with his law-mandated synthetic at his side, he’s something of a ‘Golden Boy’ on the force lately and John can’t help but wonder if they would still give him their nods of acknowledgment if they knew how he passed his off-work hours. Probably not, he reasons. They tend not to pin medals on alcoholic drug addicts. Not to mention ones with a crippling case of depression and a head full of anger issues.

Instead, they push and push until every ounce of usefulness has been wrung dry and the guy either offs himself from the stress or screws up so badly they can dismiss him without a pension. Strangely enough, John’s sort of okay with this.

So, yeah, his leg still shakes but he marks it down as an improvement that it waits until he’s alone to do it. In the safety of his dark apartment, John feels no guilt whatsoever downing a pill and then a bottle, sometimes in the opposite order, until the blur of night fades into morning and he can be a functioning human being again. He may wake up, more often than not, to the feeling of solid cement rushing up to meet his falling body but there’s no one around but the shadows to see him at his panicked, gasping weakest. After a shower and a fresh set of clothes, he can walk out of his door with two steady feet, equipped with a mental barricade to rival the best, and no one will ever know.  
On the plus side of things, except for that one little slip, Dorian has kept his hands to himself.

John doesn’t really see the incident at the food stall as a tableau of acceptance for either of them; they’re just making do with what they’ve been given. And if the memory of a warm palm holding his betraying body steady lets him do his job then that’s a sacrifice he’ll have to make. As he said, his brain’s going to shit anyway. What’s one more bad dream?

There hasn’t been a problem since so fuck it, right; he’s cured.

-

The problem starts off small, as most sects often do, with random acts of destruction throughout the city. There are no casualties in the beginning, just property damage but it catches the eye of the higher ups, mainly due to the clean-cut style of the jobs that suggests they’re capable of so much more. A data pack containing every scrap of information they have on them soon gets thrust into John’s hands one morning and he flicks through it, scowling at the ridiculous looking masks they’ve chosen to represent their cause.

At the time, he doesn’t think very much of them. Sure, they’re a pain in the ass but he’s got his own host of problems to deal with and their petty crimes are nothing special. He deals with them with the same detached purposefulness that has so far elevated him above the rest.

That is, until the seemingly small sects cohesively band together and drive a decked-out hummer through a crowded market square, shooting and killing nineteen while wounding another seven.

Being in the damnably unfair position of ‘Golden Boy’ unsurprisingly turns out to be more weighed down with cons than it does pros. From what John can gather it brings nothing but headaches and that’s after being labelled with it for only a week. He can’t say he’s all that surprised he and Dorian are the ones that get the stink eye when the report comes in.

Several similar events happen over the course of the next couple of days and the body count rises with each one. When a rumour finally reaches them of their possible whereabouts, it doesn’t take a genius to predict who they’re going to send.

And that’s how John finds himself huddled outside an abandoned warehouse in the rain, cursing whoever thought it would be a good idea to send the guy who’s already toeing the edge on such a shitty assignment.

Dorian informs him that there’s only one man inside and they’re certainly going to get a strongly worded lecture on how they let all the others get away but John doesn’t care. As long as he gets this asshole, he’ll be able to drink himself to sleep later in good conscience.

He holds up his hand and counts down three fingers. On the last, Dorian throws his weight into the door and John snaps his aim in the direction of said asshole.

He hears the dull echo of the explosive hit the ground before he sees the actual object. In line with the rest of their weaponry, it’s advanced, attracted to heat signatures in motion and it explains why the casualties have largely been human and not synthetics. In theory the technology makes sense but Dorian has always seemed too warm to him in the rare times they’ve touched in the past.

Like right now, John amends, when he feels a hand radiating heat on his chest, urging him to stop and remain still at the same time he finds himself instinctively pulling Dorian back into the doorway. When the explosive does blow, the resultant noise is deafening in the small warehouse but the damage radius of the blast mostly misses them. He’d braced himself with his best leg and it’s the main reason he’s still on his feet.

Once the debris stops raining down on the back of his neck, John lowers the protective arm he’d thrown up and scans the area. The lingering smoke makes things more difficult but the guy has clearly used the distraction to escape. He sprints over the crater left in the floor and shoulders open the heavy duty door that leads back outside. The rain’s coming down hard and it disguises whichever direction their bomber has taken. 

Dorian skids to a stop next to him and while John wipes the smokes sting from his eyes he asks, “Which way?”

Now, most of the time, he knows that Dorian could easily pass as human for those who don’t know the truth. He has this ingrained looseness about his limbs that looks convincingly casual but ask him to do something past the realm of human capability and he instantly shifts into something otherworldly. John has witnessed the change a number of times but the tense stance and glazed eyes still manage to throw him sometimes. Although, the effect is slightly dampened this time by the fact that the blast has singed the arm of his jacket and the skin on show is arrhythmically twitching. Having a synthetic exhibit signs of muscle fatigue in front of his eyes should be unnatural but John takes solace in it instead because, would you look at that? They’re both freaks.

Dorian blinks and comes back to himself in an instant. There’s definitely something human in the way he sighs and points up. “Fire escape,” he explains and John shares his worn expression.

His vision is still a little blurry so he laces his fingers together and boosts Dorian up first because the little shit they’re tailing had actually had the forethought to pull the ladder up behind him. Dorian takes a second to kick the ladder down and then takes off up the steps towards the roof. John follows as quickly as he can but even with the new advantage of a working leg, the steps are slick with rain and he bashes his shin several times before he reaches the top.

The moment he vaults over the low wall surrounding the edge of the building, something whistles over his head and before he can even register that it was a bullet, a hand pulls him down behind the shelter of some kind of maintenance shaft.

“This is bullshit,” John hisses in lieu of a thank you as he checks he hasn’t busted a bloody leak somewhere. “Who runs up?”

“He’s not going to hang around for long,” Dorian answers and John thinks about overpopulation and the resulting density of the city. They’re in the old, decaying part of the seedy underworld and he can guess where this is leading and he doesn’t like it.

He reluctantly nods and directs Dorian one way while he takes the other; they’ll pincer the guy before he can even think about leaping across any rooftops.

They almost manage it as well but as he closes in, he hears the flurry of feet against the ground and John knows they’ve missed their chance. He starts running and rounds the corner just in time to see the guy readying himself to leap off the edge to the building next door.

John isn’t having any of that shit.

Any other time, he would have shot the guy’s legs out from underneath him but he can’t risk the guy tumbling over the edge. They need him alive if they’re going to have any chance at tracking down the rest of his crew, so he acts on instinct and lobs his weapon hard at the guy’s back instead. There’s no danger, really, as it can’t go off without his unique prints. 

His aim is a little off and who can blame him, it’s not like he has a synthetic arm, but the move pays off anyway, clocking the guy in the back of his head. He stumbles backwards in a daze and it gives John enough time to close the gap between them and tackle the guy to the ground.

He’ll have to remember to really emphasise this part in his report later because there’s no way they can still call him their ‘Golden Boy’ after this.

A bony elbow glances off his ribs but he rolls with the motion, catching the offending arm and twisting it behind his back. The other arm comes easy enough and he soon has his knee buried into the man’s spine. He squirms but John locks his limbs tight and looks up, seeking out Dorian.

He finds him standing just off to the side, his own weapon trained on the body under John’s and he’s ever so slightly smirking.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he says, shaking his head.

John scowls back because he can’t ignore the teasing in his voice. Synthetics are not supposed to joke and he’s already lost count of the times Dorian has laughed at him.

“I got him, didn’t I?” he grunts.

And he’s pretty damn sure Dorian is just about to laugh at him again but he doesn’t get the chance as the world suddenly shifts for John and a force pulls him around until his back collides with floor. The bomber, now above him, gets in one good punch to John’s face before his shoulder explodes and he flies backwards.

Except, it doesn’t end there either because not only is he some kind of bomb expert, he’s also something of a skilled acrobat. He scrambles into a crouch lightning fast and reaches for his boot with his undamaged arm. John only manages to make out a glint of metal and then a switchblade is arching down on him.

He braces himself for the sharp sting of pain; he’s been stabbed before and he knows it hurts like a bitch, but it never comes, which is strange because the pressure is unmistakable. When he unscrews his eyes, he sees the blade is pressed deep into his leg, his synthetic leg, and if he wasn’t so angry he’d be rolling his eyes. Dorian’s never going to let him forget this.

The bomber tears the blade down, intending to do as much damage as he can, but the jokes on him. John still feels a great sense of vindication when he aims a hard kick into his face and he hears the splinter of bone and red blooms into the white expanse of his mask.

Dorian then has him incapacitated and in handcuffs before he can pull something else out of his arsenal and John wearily props himself up to probe his aching cheek.

“You okay?” Dorian asks.

John doesn’t bother to look at him. He doesn’t need to see the worry he knows is there. He tongues the inside of his mouth, tasting blood, and spits out, “Just peachy.”

With a drawn out sigh, Dorian drags the bomber to his feet. He doesn’t offer John a hand up, thankfully.

“Next time,” he says, in a level tone, “don’t forget the handcuffs.”

It’s a different kind of teasing than John’s used to, harder and more pointed. He thinks he likes it even less than the laughing. He grasps the knife sticking out of his leg and yanks it free, letting it clatter across the rooftop. He throws a, “Fuck you,” at Dorian but it’s more out of habit than anything else.

When they descend the steps of the fire escape, criminal in tow, he doesn’t even limp.

-

The goddamn medic actually does roll his eyes when he finds John and he hasn’t said a word about his leg yet so Dorian must have spoken for him once again.

He tries to wave him off; there’s fuck all wrong with him for a change but the medic insists. Ever since John willingly came to him a few months back, he’s been something of a cocky bastard around him, magically showing up every time he skins his knee or chips a fucking nail. John absently suspects he’s merely counting down the days to his inevitable plunge. Maybe there’s enough madness in him to piece together a book from the map of his psychological wreck and he thinks if he clings to the source like this he’ll have first dibs. Hell, John sighs, he can have it. Someone might as well get some gain from his miserable life because he certainly isn’t.

He leaves an hour later with a newly patched up leg and a brewing headache, vowing to have a drink for every time he’s had the urge to punch someone today.

He’ll be out in a half-an-hour, tops.

-

It’s still somewhere in the midst of dark o’clock when John flinches awake from a restless sleep. As usual, there’s sweat pooling in the dip of his neck, his panting is loud and harsh and his leg is vibrating through the sheets.

For a brief moment, he thinks all of this is just part of his routine. He’s no stranger to bad dreams and startled awakenings but there’s something subtly different about it this time. He palms his shivering thigh and stares blankly up at his ceiling until a soft scraping noise cuts through the silence.

He always puts his weapon far out of reach before he uncaps any bottles, be it pills or alcohol, so he finds himself regrettably empty-handed when he calls out for the lights. They flicker on immediately and he blinks greedily through the sudden blindness. He finds no shadows coming to get him only Dorian sitting calmly at his cluttered desk.  
While his body tangos through feelings of relief and then utter disgust at himself, John digs his fingers into his eyes until all he sees are stars.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters and, through the gap in his hands, he sees Dorian twist around in his chair.

He’s leafing through one of John’s books, which explains the noise but not what he’s doing here. Or how he’s managed to worm his way inside John’s apartment when he’d locked it securely against anything but his own prints? Dorian hums appreciatively across the room, obviously not caring either way that he’s intruding. 

“You have a lot of books,” he says, like there’s nothing odd going on here at all.

John swings his legs off the bed and rubs the lethargy of sleep from the rest of his face. “I like the smell,” he snarls, heavy with sarcasm, before climbing to his feet. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Dorian keeps quiet. He stays quiet even as John stumbles around the desk dressed in nothing but a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. His damn leg taunts him, fully on show, and he can feel Dorian’s eyes track it as he walks.

Finally, after a tense pause where John contemplates fetching his gun, Dorian tears his gaze away.

“Gideon’s concerned about you.”

How anticlimactic, John has no idea who that is.

“Who?”

Dorian tilts his head and John feels like a lowly ant under his look. “Your doctor,” he explains patiently and, admittedly, John thinks he should probably know that.

He covers his flare of embarrassment with a derisive snort. “Yeah, I bet he is,” he snipes. The guy’s probably already fishing for the perfect title to call his misery.

After another aimless beat, he zeros in on the book still clutched in Dorian’s hand and wonders where his anger at the situation has gone.

“You know what, no. This can’t happen. You can’t fucking-” John struggles for the appropriate words and reaches over to steal his book back. He tosses it in the vague direction of his bed and doesn’t bother to listen if he hits his mark; he’s already demonstrated his piss poor aim once today and it’s not exactly a concern of his. A synthetic with boundary issues on the other hand…

“What you’re doing now, this is crossing the lenient fucking line I’ve set for you. And okay, I can put up with bizarre noises in the car. I can ignore this budding friendship you seem to have with the guy that thinks stalking me is the same as providing medical care. I can even do my best to forget the fact that you’re probably more human than me in a lot of ways. But this,” his fist comes down hard on his desk, rattling the junk scattered there, “breaking into my apartment to paw through my things in the dark, you can’t do that. This is the kind of stuff that gets you decommissioned, Dorian.”

When John finishes his tirade with a name so very foreign sounding on his tongue, Dorian flinches. There’s a definite hint of shame in his expression and in the stark light of his apartment John feels like shit. 

Silence stretches taut and awkward between them while Dorian fiddles with his hands, looking like every person that’s ever been scolded.

Before John can do anything ridiculous like apologize, though, Dorian breaks out of his slouch and reaches for the half-empty bottle of gin John had failed to finish off earlier and slides it towards him. Beside it, there’s an empty tumbler and, for a second, John thinks that’s it, he’s broken the synthetic. He’s dragged him down to his level and broken him.

However, Dorian surprises him. He takes the bottle and the glass, stands up and makes his way over to the sink where he then unscrews the bottle and begins pouring the remains down the drain.

John can only watch and splutter as Dorian carefully and calmly upends the bottle until there’s nothing left and places everything to rest in the sink. When he turns back around to face John, he appears determined.

“Did you even listen to a word I said?” John sighs.

Dorian shrugs, uninterested. “This routine of yours,” he says instead, “it’s not helping.”

“I’d disagree. I’d say it works fine.”

Dorian pulls a face and leans back against the counter. “What I saw, before you woke, did not look ‘fine’. You were mumbling in your sleep.”

John throws up his hand; he doesn’t want to hear about that. He drinks the equivalent of his body weight so that he doesn’t have to.

“You’re sober now, though?” Dorian ventures, with a raise of his eyebrows and he’s going somewhere with this, somewhere John can’t predict.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mostly,” he growls and when Dorian then doesn’t finish off his train of thought, John glances at him and finds his implying stare pointed at his leg. The same leg that’s just as steady now as it was on that rain slick roof hours earlier. Well shit, John thinks.

“You don’t need any of this,” Dorian presses. “It’s all in your head.”

John would throttle him right now if he didn’t have to cross the space with a damning steady gait. “Don’t you think I know that?” he says. “Of course it’s my head fucking with me but that doesn’t mean I can just flick a switch, kindly tell it stop. It doesn’t work like that.”

“It’s working now.”

“It’s working now because you annoy me so damn much.” He points an accusing finger at Dorian. “You get so far under my skin that I don’t have the energy to do anything else but think of ways to get rid of you.”

“Then use me.”

John rears backwards, grimace in place and comes all too aware that they’re both shouting at each other. He grinds his teeth and stands his ground.

“Get out,” he demands.

Dorian doesn’t move. John breathes out through his teeth and tries again with a softer voice.

“Don’t worry; you just wasted the last of my nightcap. Now get out, I need to sleep.”

Dorian doesn’t smile but he takes a step in the direction of the door and that’s a start.

John trails behind him at a reasonable distance and when the door slides shut and he’s finally alone, he lets all the tension just bleed from his shoulders. He’s suddenly exhausted.

He collapses on his bed and nearly knocks himself out, without the aid of alcohol, when his head collides with a hard-backed book. Swearing and grunting unintelligibly, he swipes the book from his pillow and falls asleep so fast, he doesn’t even have time to wonder if his leg is shaking or not.

His last thought is that he’s immensely thankful that Dorian didn’t touch him this time. Never mind the fact that things actually turned out a lot weirder. He’ll deal with it tomorrow by pretending tonight didn’t happen. And how’s that for the forces ‘Golden Boy?'


End file.
